The Arkansaw traveler., 1887-12-31


 you to your room, to which you have been stranger for many years; plac- ing the light on the stand by the old familiar looking glass, bids you "Good night" and quietly steps out. An hour passes and you have not been asleep, but, seated quietly at the win dow thinking, listening-to what-of what?-to the tones of earlier days, as they come surging through the years, and into your heart of hearts, while carelessly resting your head upon your arm on the window-sill.
 Hark! "Now I lay me down to sleep" strikes upon your ear with the same clearness it did when child of a few summers, and you greet the tones with joy then unknown to you. Just across the room is your own lit- tie trundle-bed, now kept for sisters child when they come to see mother. Are you thinking of the time when you knelt beside it, with mothers hand on your head, and together re- peated "Our Father, who art in heaven?" You hear it now just as plain as ever. Not tender tone in mothers voice is missed while the holy music lulled you to sleep.
 This is your first Sabbath day at home. The breakfast finished, you walk through the orchard and fields, not forgetting the spring that breaks from wonder hillside and the purling brock it feeds. Beneath that old elm tree close by, you leisurely sit down, and turn the pages of memory back ward score of years and once more live over the dreamy days of childhood.
 You can hear the gay laugh of young playmates now as they sail their rude ships of shingle in the stream, and no commander of ocean lines is more proud than were any one of those youthful companions when his ship was sailing ahead of the others. But those gay tones are all hushed now and would be forgotten were it not for their echo-that mys- terious echo hich so often sounds in the human breast and will sound to life's latest hour.
 These characters we bear in daily life are not like the marble statue, or pillar of granite, polished and firmly placed on pedestals, but are subject to change, and the "twigs and tendrils of childhood are woven all through the warp and wool of youth, manhood, and cen down to old age" If our marble and granite are ever polished and finished, it will be done by the Grand Architect of the universe, in temple not made with hands.
 Housing from your dream you re- member mother said "to be home by three," to be ready for church. It's not far to that little stone chapel, and the walk with mother and father is another tone just coming to your in- ner ear by the wayside. You can hear your own boyish laugh while chasing the butterflies, the wild flowers grow ing in the lane nod their tiny heads with the same graceful curves, but you never were so pleased by their natural politeness.
 A feeling of sadness comes over you when looking around to find famil- far face; none save the noble man in the pulpit and he is changed, his hair is winter than when you listened to him years ago. At the close, his cor dial greeting awakens olden- time wis., its at the homestead, always full of kind words for the young. While father and minister are talking, mother gently takes your arm and leads you to the graveyard, adjacent to the church. A few steps and you are standing by the graves of brother and sister. No carved monument marks their resting places, just the green sod, adorned by a few simple flowers kept there by mothers care. While in tender tones she relates the story of their death, how your heart throbs at her touching words of sor- row when sister was laid here, alone and yet not alone, her mothers heart knew that "He doeth all things well." You wondered why no marble marked this hallowed spot, but was careful not to mention to mother your thoughts. It is just from this mo- ment the undertones in mothers and fathers lives are beginning to make themselves heard by you. All the way home these tones grow stronger and louder. How the most severe economy has been like skeleton in the closet to those parents, and what now is your duty?
 Mothers story to you of the mort gage on the old home and fathers struggle to keep the interest paid, how the tones from that burden ot debt reach your heart in a low requiem played in minor key. Its sad strains steal away from you the remembrance of fathers stern mien in opposing your leaving home. Now, your mind is settled as to what disposition you will make of portion of the fortune in your possession.
 Tt,s twentv miles to tho v;lIa0o